Choices
by phoebe2
Summary: A companion piece to "Decisions". Jim Gordon goes into hiding the night of his apparent assassination. As he waits to put the rest of his plan into action, Jim thinks about his choices in life and how this one would hurt the one he loved most of all.


**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by DC Comics, various publishers, and Warner Bros., Inc. Any other owners, licensees, or those legally attached to the Batman name, image, etc. of whom the author is unaware are included in this disclaimer although not mentioned by name. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: This idea was with me when I woke up this morning and followed me through 3 loads of laundry, emptying the dishwasher and running errands. I figured that any blot bunny with _that_ much tenacity deserved to be written. This is a one-shot, intended as a companion piece to "Decisions" and is written from Jim's perspective. Enjoy!

**Warning**: Some minor adult language.

Choices

Gerry Stephens crouched low as he crossed the platform so recently occupied by city officials and state government representatives. The air was filled with the terrified screams of those who had come to show their respect for the former Police Commissioner. The veteran detective had no time for any of them; his gaze was fixed on the motionless form of his boss – and best friend – lying where he had fallen, after taking a bullet intended for the Mayor. Pushing a metal folding chair aside with some force, Gerry finally reached his goal and pushed shaking fingers against Jim Gordon's exposed neck.

"How is he?" Garcia asked, shaking off the uniformed officer struggling to remove him from the scene.

Gerry spared the younger man a brief glance, but it was long enough for Garcia to see the anger embedded in his gaze. "You can't do anything for him, _sir_; except let these officers do their job and get you _out of here_!"

Garcia drew breath to respond but then thought better of it as the realization of the detective's comment hit home. _'You can't do anything'…Gordon's … _dead_? _The reality hit full force then. _Jim Gordon's dead because he stepped in front of a bullet intended for me. _Gordon did his job – more _than_; Garcia stopped defying the policemen and allowed them to lead him away.

As Gerry watched him disappear, an ambulance pulled up silently next to the grandstand. He waited, but no emergency personnel emerged from the red and white vehicle. Gripping his weapon tightly, and with one final glance at his friend, Stephens rose and hurried over to the rescue vehicle which, while seemingly provident, still warranted caution.

"Where…" Gerry's voice trailed off as he approached the drivers' side door and saw no one inside the cab. Flipping his weapon's safety off, he approached the back of the ambulance and jerked the door open. It, too, was empty – other than a stretcher and the usual medical equipment. The detective replaced the safety and looked back over at the platform. Jim lay as he'd left him – on his back, eyes closed, glasses slightly askew, mouth slack. Gerry holstered his weapon and reached for the stretcher. The sound of gunfire hurried his steps. _No one gets to him but _me_ this time_. Finally reaching the platform for a second time, the somber detective lay the stretcher close to Jim's side. Carefully, he then turned his friend's body until it rested on its side and slid the stretcher in place. Releasing Jim's body gently, Gerry settled it onto the stretcher pausing only to remove Jim's glasses and put them in his own pocket. He rose, for the first time considering how he was going to transfer Jim from the platform to the ambulance. A shadow from the rear corner of the platform caught Gerry's eye and he drew his service revolver as he whirled in its direction.

"Drag the stretcher to the edge," a graveled voice ordered. When Gerry didn't lower his weapon, he heard a frustrated exhalation. "Trust me; _he _did."

"Yeah; and look where it got him," Gerry spat back but once again holstered his gun. It was true. Jim had trusted the Batman; it was also true that jumping in front of Mayor Garcia - protecting others – was something Jim did on his own. With a quick look around him to ensure he wasn't observed, Gerry did as he was instructed.

The Batman stepped forward enough to grasp one end of the stretcher and he stayed in the shadows as much as possible as the two men loaded Jim Gordon into the back of the ambulance. To his surprise, the masked vigilante tossed Gerry a set of keys as he climbed into the back end of the vehicle. "You drive; I'll give you directions."

"Why should I listen to _you_?" Gerry demanded, climbing in after him, ready for a fight. "Why should I go along with any plan of _yours_?"

The stern line of the Batman's mouth appeared to relax slightly. "It's not my plan."

"Not your…," Gerry's voice was cut off sharply as he felt a hand touch his arm.

"It's mine." Gerry looked down to see Jim's eyes open – slightly unfocused – but looking up at him. Jim put his hand up to his face as if searching for something and Gerry, recognizing the gesture, reached into his pocket and put Jim's glasses in his hand. Wincing as he did so, Jim put them on.

With a glace over at the Batman, Jim turned back to his old friend. "Drive where he directs you. When we get there, I'll tell you everything…including where you fit in all of it."

"Where I…_fit_…," Gerry looked down at Jim. The grief that had turned to anger – then relief - at Jim's awakening was threatening to turn to anger again. "Boss or no boss; this had _better_ be good."

When he turned toward the Batman, Gerry was handed a piece of paper with directions to two separate addresses. With one last look at his friend, Gerry jumped from the back of the vehicle and took his place behind the wheel. "This had better be _damned _good," he muttered as he stuck the key in the ignition.

XXXXXXXX

They made one stop before reaching whatever destination Jim and the Batman had decided upon and that was the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse on the northern fringe of Gotham City. A navy blue van that had clearly seen better days was parked in a sheltered vehicle bay situated between two wings of the dilapidated building. Jim was alone, sitting up on the stretcher when Gerry opened the rear doors. Jim waved him off when he attempted to assist him out of the ambulance. "What happened to …" Gerry began, but Jim shook his head as he climbed into the back seat of the van and stretched out on the long bench. Jim tossed some medical supplies on the floor in front of him.

"You get used to it," he said. "Let's go before we're seen."

Their journey ended at a small, rather rundown apartment building on the opposite side of the city. Following the Batman's directions, Gerry drove around to the back of the building and parked the van near what appeared to be a delivery entrance. They traveled the short distance to a service elevator and the Jim punched the button for the 4th floor – followed by a 3-digit code. When the door slid open again, it was to reveal a sparsely furnished living room.

As Gerry followed Jim into the apartment, he could see the other man clearly favoring his right side. "Let's go," he said, taking Jim by the elbow and leading him over to the small kitchen area and propelling him onto one of the wooden stools stationed against a battered, Formica-topped island. "You need help with your jacket and shirt?" Gerry thrust his chin out as he turned on the hot water tap and searched through the cupboards until he found a bowl.

Jim slipped out of his jacket and the Kevlar vest beneath it with a sigh and grimaced as after dispatching his tie and dress shirt, he finally pulled his t-shirt away from his back.

"Let's have a look," Gerry said.

The bullet had hit Jim just over his right shoulder blade; however the vest had protected him from serious injury. The ammunition being used by the Joker and his men was known to be a version of the armor-piercing bullets that had lately become so popular with members of the syndicate. Luckily for Jim, the Kevlar had blocked the majority of the damage, but the bullet had still slammed into him with enough force that the tip pierced his skin and the top half of the bullet had been driven to lodge in his back. The jostling and movement since the shooting had only served to irritate the wound. When Jim removed the vest, the bullet easily came with it, but the bleeding began again.

"This is going to hurt," Gerry said, rummaging through the first aid supplies Jim had brought with him from the van and locating what he needed to cleanse and dress the wound.

"'_Going to _hurt'? How bad is it?" Jim wanted to know, cringing slightly as Gerry pressed an alcohol pad against the wound.

"I've seen worse," Gerry said. "When did you last have a tetanus shot?"

"My physical; three months ago."

"Good; I hate needles." Gerry finished cleaning and bandaging the wound then as Jim dressed he gave him a frank stare. "Mind telling me what's going on here?"

"The Joker has short-listed his targets. He's already taken out two people on the list and today he tried a third. Actually…"

Gerry sat down heavily as he realized what Jim was saying. "… he got his third target; just not the one he intended."

"My family's safe – as long as I don't go back home until we've caught this lunatic," Jim said. He looked around the small apartment, eyes taking in the clean, but shabby interior, the sparse, out-of-date furniture and the doorway that led to a tiny bedroom and bath. "This will be home until then."

Gerry smirked, thinking of Jim's fastidious wife who would _not _be impressed by the place when she got there. "Barbara will drive you nuts cleaning this place while you're all here. How are you getting them here? Is _that _where I fit in the plan? I'm to spirit them here under cloak of darkness? Well, I've had worse assignments, I suppose."

Jim remained silent, his blue eyes never leaving the other man's face.

"What? The Batman's going to bring them over?"

"No one's bringing them," Jim finally spoke, his voice low and raw. "For my family to be safe, _everyone_ has to believe that I'm dead. That includes Barbara and the kids. _Your _role in the plan is to go back to the station, pick up Ramirez and head over to break the news."

Gerry's eyes widened and he shook his head. "No."

Jim's voice was deceptively soft. "'_No'_?"

"No, Jim; I won't do it. We've all been friends for too long. I can't look that girl in the eye and tell her that she's lost her husband in the line of duty; particularly when I know that's a lie." Gerry's jaw was set. "I don't know what kind of plan you and that Bat have cooked up but …"

"You forget yourself, Sergeant," Jim's quiet drawl cut through the tense air. "I outrank you – and I've just given you a direct order."

Gerry's face paled and he stood, carefully returning the stool to its former location on the opposite side of the breakfast bar. "Yes, sir," he replied stiffly. "I'll take care of it." He made his way to the elevator.

"Gerry," Jim's voice reached him before he'd gotten halfway across the room. Although he didn't turn around, Gerry stopped to see what the other man had to say.

"If everything goes according to plan, we'll have the Joker in custody in a matter of days – two at the most," Jim's voice asked him to understand; to go along with a task and a situation he knew was worse than difficult. "I don't like this any better than you do."

Gerry said nothing for several minutes then turned to face Jim. "But you don't have to deliver the news. You don't have to say the words you know are a lie. You don't have to stand there and watch her break when she hears them. You don't have to pretend to mourn a fellow cop – a _friend_, damn it – in front of the rest of the unit." He shrugged. "Like you said, you're the boss."

"It's the only way I know to do this and keep everyone safe," Jim said defensively. "I didn't say it was perfect."

"_Perfect_? Jimmy, it ain't even _good_," Gerry said. He waited for a few minutes. "So, what's the plan? How are we doing this thing with the Joker?"

Jim looked away. "It's probably better if you don't know."

Gerry bristled. "What? You think I'm one of the cops on the take? All of a sudden you can't trust me anymore? We used to be partners; that used to count for something."

Jim crossed to where the other man stood. "You're one of the few people I _do_ trust; you know that. What I _meant _was that if you don't know what's going to happen, you're safer. You won't do something to put yourself at risk."

"Don't try to placate me, _sir_," Gerry spat. "I'm already involved in this."

Jim's eyes narrowed as he considered the detective in front of him. _He's right_, he thought. _And having him on the inside would make things easier – marginally easier, granted – but any edge they could gain could make the difference in the end. _"Sit down."

For the next hour, Jim relayed the plan to lure the Joker into the open using the Batman as bait. Now that three officials had been assassinated, the public would begin calling for the Batman's head. The Joker wanted the vigilante out of the picture and had maneuvered the public into thinking that calling for his surrender would bring the killings to an end. Gordon knew they were wrong, but the Batman himself had decided that he would offer himself up at the first opportunity, promising that he would be more than able to make his escape prior to any attempts to unmask him.

Gerry listened silently, nodding every now and again. "You're leaving a lot to chance, Jim," he said when the other man was finished speaking.

Jim shook his head. "Dent is under a lot of pressure from the public. The longer it takes him to step up to a microphone and try to calm people down, the more precarious his position becomes. He wants this to stop as much as the rest of us; he'll call for the Batman to step forward and surrender. When he does, Batman will be transported to a safe location prior to any unmasking that might be done. We already know there's a traitor in the department. That tells me that someone will leak the route information. The Joker and his thugs will show up to intercept the Batman; we'll be waiting."

"And if Dent decides to sit on holding any kind of press conference?"

"Then it takes longer than two days. Of course, _you _might be able to persuade him, given that the head of the MCU was the Joker's latest victim," Jim's face was grim.

"I _can_ be pretty persuasive when I want to be," Gerry responded. "I'll do what I can, Jimmy; you know that. I'll get some of the others to go in with me if I have to."

"Thanks, Gerry," Jim stood as the other man did the same. "I know there are still risks, but …"

"Yeah, yeah; I know. It's the only thing you can think of that might work," Gerry glanced at the window. Night had fallen. "I'd better go before Barbara hears about you from someone else."

Jim nodded and walked him to the elevator. "Thanks for what you did today; thanks for going out to the house tonight. It will be easier hearing it from you." He extended his hand to his friend.

Gerry shook Jim's hand, looking at him intently. "Don't kid yourself. It's not going to matter that it's me; what _matters_ is that this time, it's _you_."

Jim nodded, watching Gerry into the elevator, nodding to him as the doors slipped shut. As the elevator car wheezed and clunked its way to street level, Jim turned and walked down the narrow hallway to the bedroom. He dropped into the faded, upholstered chair near the window and surrendered to his thoughts.

XXXXXXXX

"This came in the mail today," Jim said proudly pushing an envelope toward the pretty, auburn-haired young woman sitting opposite him at the table. Martini's Italian Restaurant was crowded, as usual; in a college town like theirs, students with minimal expendable income flocked to the family-style restaurant every Friday night. The Martini family offered heaping bowls of spaghetti and meatballs for $2 per serving to any young person who could present a college ID. Jim Gordon and Barbara O'Malley were both seniors – and had been enjoying Friday date nights at the popular restaurant since they had begun seeing each other 2 ½ years earlier.

Barbara smiled at the earnest expression on Jim's face then laughed and leaned closer to him. "Come here," she said, her voice raised to be heard above the din. When he did so, she reached over and cleaned a bit of spaghetti sauce from the corner of his mustache. Jim blushed when she drew back her finger and held it up for him to see. "Another reason to shave that thing off; it picks up all sorts of things!"

Jim smiled then, catching her hand and bringing her finger to his lips. He kissed it, cleaning the residue of sauce from the pad, watching her eyes flutter as he did so. "Maybe it has its advantages, after all," he suggested, gently resting their clasped hands on top of the table.

It was Barbara's turn to blush. "Maybe," she conceded. Clearing her throat, she disentangled their fingers and opened the envelope Jim had handed her. She read the single paragraph letter then refolded the sheet and felt her smile broaden. "Jim! You've been accepted; congratulations!"

Jim grinned. "Yep; I'll enter the Academy in June and graduate in November."

"And then?"

"And then, if I'm lucky, I'll go to work for the Chicago PD," Jim sat back, smiling.

"As a detective?" Barbara took a sip of her water.

Jim leaned forward again, folding his arms on the table. "Not right away. I'll have an 18 month probation, then I'll have to work my way up."

"But your father and _his _father were part of the Chicago police; doesn't that help?" Barbara asked.

Jim shook his head. "I'm not going to play on that. I want to make it on my own merit – not because I'm John Gordon's son or Bill Gordon's grandson."

Barbara smiled as the waitress dropped off their bill – and the containers of left-overs – and Jim placed a few bills on top of the slip of paper and covered them with a salt shaker. He looked up and caught her eye then gave her a small wink. "Ready, sweetheart?"

At her nod, he rose from his seat and reached for her hand. Their table was claimed before they'd taken two steps away from it.

The night was cool and Jim took off his good navy sport coat and slid it around Barbara's shoulders. As they walked along, he kept his arm around her and slowed his steps to match her shorter stride. He steered her toward the small gazebo in the park and there, with the promise of the future so bright in front of them, Jim asked Barbara to marry him – and she said yes.

XXXXXXXX

Jim sighed and rose from the chair, his body feeling stiffer than it had earlier. Without looking, he knew that his crashing dive to the hard wood of the platform had created bruises that were just now beginning to come up. Jim walked to the first aid kit and fished out a bottle of ibuprofen and shook three of the rust colored tablets into his hand. Grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator, he twisted off the top and chased the pills down with a healthy swallow. As Jim turned his eye caught the cheap, white plastic clock someone had hung over the sink. 6 o'clock. Gerry would be attempting to negotiate through end-of-day commuter traffic on his way to the MCU to pick up Anna Ramirez. He closed his eyes and pictured the scene at the MCU. Jim had no doubt that the full crew would be there, even – and perhaps especially – whoever was leaking information to the Joker, the mob – or both. They could ill afford to appear suspicious at this point in time. As Jim leaned against the tiny breakfast bar, his mind conjured up the faces of each of the men and women who made up the MCU. Apart from Gerry, whom he trusted with his life, he could make an argument for each of them if he really tried. Jim sighed; the problem was that he really didn't _want_ to try. He, himself, had chosen this team; it rankled to think that he'd missed something so critical as to bring a traitor to the ranks of a unit that was formed to break down organized crime in Gotham City. Perhaps what they were about to do would reveal the cop who was connected to the criminals they were supposed to bring down.

Jim pushed himself off the bar and covered the short distance to the living room window. Although the place was in darkness, he still stood to the side to avoid being seen. _This place is so far off the beaten path, I'd be surprised to see anyone wandering around down there_, he chided himself. Still, with so much at stake, why take chances? Jim's eyes wandered away from the immediate vicinity of the building to the highway visible in the distance. Hundreds of pairs of tiny, red lights dimmed and glowed brightly at regular intervals as four lanes of traffic wound their way through the city like a noisy, urban conga line. Jim's thoughts returned to his friend, whom Jim knew first-hand did _not _suffer traffic snarls with any great degree of patience. It was another trait they shared.

XXXXXXXX

Jim slapped the top of the steering wheel in frustration as he inched along the highway toward home – and the surprise 35th birthday party awaiting him there. Barbara was so certain that she'd managed to pull it off this time, but he'd found out – as usual. Tim Donahue, his partner for the past 5 years, knew that Jim hated few things as much as he hated surprises – particularly those that put him at the center of attention. Tim's wife, Maggie, had been Barbara's best friend since childhood, the two having grown up on the same street, attended the same schools – and stood up for each other on their respective wedding days. The two couples were very close and when Maggie instructed her husband to discreetly make sure that Jim was home on time on a particular date, Tim put two and two together and tipped him off. Despite Tim's best efforts, however, Jim had not made it away from his desk as early as he would have liked and now, sitting in gridlock, he was chastising himself soundly for it. Tim had left an hour before to shower, get the kids over to his parents' house and head over to Jim and Barbara's to help get things set up. Maggie and Tim had five children; three boys and two girls and Jim and Barbara were godparents to their oldest, a rambunctious 8 year-old named Paul. Despite his current situation, Jim had to smile when he thought of the boy. He gave his folks a run for their money, but not in a bad way. Paul was a good kid; it was just that even at 8 years old, the boy took a huge bite out of life. _Someday_, he thought wistfully. _Someday, when the time is right and things aren't so up in the air._ Jim and Barbara had married the December after Jim graduated from the Academy. They rented a tiny apartment and Jim was accepted to the Chicago Police Department, while Barbara got a job teaching in the small, parochial elementary school. As with all new officers, Jim was subject to an 18 month probationary period – at a reduced salary. That, and their desire to just enjoy establishing their life together for awhile, made them decide to put off starting a family. Once Jim had successfully completed his probationary period and started work in earnest – at full departmental pay – the couple decided to start saving for a house. Their current apartment was almost too small for them, let alone bringing in a new baby with all the trappings that would entail. A few years passed and the apartment building where they lived was sold to a group of local businessmen who decided to tear it down and put up a car repair business. Having not quite saved enough for a down payment on a house in the suburbs – their goal – Jim and Barbara decided to look for a larger apartment instead of settling for something they might be able to afford, but would not be happy with. That was five years ago. Now, Jim was up for detective and they had agreed that whether or not he was promoted – and even though they still hadn't found the house of their dreams – it was time to start their own family. They'd waited long enough.

A horn blasted behind him and a look through the windshield confirmed that traffic had begun to move again. With a wave at the impatient man behind him, Jim resumed his commute – thirty minutes late and still fifteen minutes from home.

XXXXXXXX

The sound of a horn blasting in the distance brought Jim back to the present. He closed the window and walked over to the kitchen area to dispose of the now empty water bottle. Stretching gently to avoid pulling at the wound, Jim tried to work some of the soreness out of his muscles but was only moderately successful. He knew that the physical injuries were only partly to blame; the stress of knowing what Barbara – and his children – would hear tonight was also responsible for the tension. When it was all over; when they'd arrested the Joker and delivered him to Arkham, Jim would go home and put things right. He ran his fingers through his brown hair as he contemplated her reaction; he would have a lot to make up for, but their safety from this madman was worth whatever he had to pay. With a sigh, Jim walked over to the sofa, lying back against the worn, faded upholstery and folded his arms over his chest. With no one to talk to and nothing to do, maybe he could get a little rest. He'd need his wits about him for what he suspected would unfold in the coming days.

Jim wasn't sure how long he slept, but a slight rustling sound from the direction of the elevator awakened him. Slowly, trying not to give himself away, Jim dropped his hand to the floor next to the sofa and silently released the leather security strap that held his revolver in its holster. He slid the weapon into his hand and listened intently, every muscle tensed.

"Shooting me would put a cramp in the plan," the deep, rough voice cut through the stillness and Jim sat up to see the Batman leaning his shoulder against the door jam.

Jim replaced his gun and shook his head at the other man as he rose and walked over to the doorway. "You should be thankful that suit's made of Kevlar. Entrances like that one will get you killed otherwise."

"Dent's called for a press conference tomorrow afternoon."

"That was fast."

"Your 'death' has resonated with City Hall. Some of the more law-abiding citizens – and your own MCU are calling for action; not to mention calling for my head," there was a touch of some emotion Jim couldn't identify in the voice that spoke from the shadows.

"We were right, then," Jim nodded. "The city would see your surrender as the solution to our problem with the Joker."

"So it would seem. Dent's determined to try and calm things before they turn ugly. My guess is that the fourth estate will turn on him and call for action over rhetoric."

"They'd better," Jim replied tersely. "Unless the press turns up and makes a sufficiently intimidating scene, your supposed 'surrender' will not have the impact we need it to have."

"I don't think we have to worry about that. If Stephens and Ramirez show up, they'll be able to get the crowd going on their own."

Jim's head snapped up. "What are you talking about?"

"I was at your house tonight – on the fire escape – when they spoke with your wife." The words were quiet and there was a sadness infused in them that Jim had not heard before. He found his own reaction to be somewhat more intense as all of the air seemed to go out of his lungs as a vivid image of the scene played out in his mind.

"How is she?" Jim's voice was barely a whisper.

"How do you _think_ she'd be?"

Something inside Jim snapped. "Don't _you _start in on me! I couldn't come up with any other way that could protect her – _or _our _children_! This was the only thing I could think of…and I'm getting damned tired of repeating myself!"

"Then stop repeating yourself," came the low voice again. "I'm not questioning you. But don't delude yourself into thinking that just because it was the only option you thought you had it's somehow a good one. It's _not_ a good one."

"But it will accomplish the goal," Jim was quieter now.

"I believe it will."

Jim nodded into the silence.

"How old is your boy?"

Jim's eyebrows rose. "Jimmy's seven; why?"

"He saw me tonight."

"Did he …?"

The dark head moved back and forth. "No. He came to the door at the end; she already knew."

"Jimmy's very caught up in the idea of you; a super-hero protecting Gotham City by night."

"I think you'll find that he knows who the real heroes are," Batman rasped.

Jim suddenly found it difficult to swallow so he contented himself with a nod. The Batman seemed to recognize his discomfiture.

"Let's adjust the plan to move you into place tomorrow."

XXXXXXXX

It was long after midnight by the time both men were satisfied that they had covered every contingency for the following afternoon. Although vague, the Batman confirmed that he had a plan in place to determine the timing of his own surrender. Jim had learned long ago not to push for information from this man; what the Batman felt Jim should know, he knew. As he hadn't been misled yet, Jim was content to allow things to remain as they were. It was an unorthodox partnership, but it was a partnership that worked, nonetheless.

Jim decided to take a hot shower to see if it did anything to loosen his aching muscles and twenty minutes later, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a faded GCPD t-shirt, he felt slightly more human than before. Walking into the kitchen, Jim wondered again about the origin of his temporary hide-out. When pressed, the Batman had told Jim that this building belonged to "an acquaintance" and was currently unoccupied. With the downturn in the economy and the rise in crime, the other families had packed up and moved out. Jim suspected that the Batman – or his alter ego – kept the place empty to ensure that he had a safe place to go when one was needed. The refrigerator was certainly stocked, he mused, standing in front of the open door and evaluating his options. Too tired to do anything other than swallow something substantial enough to make his stomach stop growling, Jim grabbed a cinnamon-raisin bagel and a bottle of milk and walked back to the couch. After polishing off what passed for a very late dinner, Jim found himself growing restless again, despite the late hour. He closed the heavy, lined drapes and flipped on the television – a newer model, incongruous with its surroundings – and caught a repeat of the late news on GCN. Seeing his own photograph on the green screen behind the news anchor and hearing the report of his own death was certainly surreal. As the anchor moved through the story, his own photo was replaced by taped images of the scene at the memorial service earlier in the day – folding chairs scattered across the wooden grandstand, podium tipped on its side, papers scattered everywhere. The camera panned the buildings overlooking the parade site as the newswoman declared one of the open windows as the place where "the shots rang out that ended James Gordon's life."

Jim rolled his eyes as he hit the power button on the remote, plunging the room back into silent darkness. He preferred the silence to the sensational drivel of the local news media, anyway. As Jim thought back over the broadcast, he felt his heart clench. Barbara always watched the late news before calling it a night. She had once half-jokingly told him that when he worked late, it was the best chance she had of seeing his face before she fell asleep. Jim's throat tightened as he hoped she hadn't watched tonight. He got up and started pacing again as images of Barbara's evening flooded his mind. He pictured her telling the kids – although from what the Batman observed, there was every chance that Jimmy had overheard Gerry on his own. Suddenly, the enormity of his choice overwhelmed him and he found it hard to breathe. Crossing the small space quickly, Jim threw open the drapery and lifted the window as high as it would open. Pressing his nose against the screen, Jim sucked in great gulps of the chilled night air until he felt the crushing weight on his chest dissipate a bit. Rising, he left the window open and crossed back to the couch. He settled himself back into the lumpy cushions, knowing that he should probably turn in for the night, but the idea of getting into a bed that didn't have his wife in it didn't hold much appeal for him. Suddenly, Jim was filled with an almost indescribable longing for his wife and his children. At seven, Jimmy was old enough to understand what had supposedly happened but Maggie, at four, would only know that he wasn't there and, according to what Barbara would tell her that he _wouldn't_ be there any more. He closed his eyes and Maggie's face came to him in so many different scenarios. The night she was born and, after being 'washed and ironed' as the older nurse declared her, placed in his arms. As Barbara slept, Jim recalled holding the tiny bundle close to his chest, enthralled at the perfection of her face, her hands, the downy hair on top of her head – and the way that she stared back at him. "Maggie-mine," he had whispered for what was to be the first of many times since. It was the name that had stuck for them, _his _name for her that no one else could use; his little spitfire had seen to that early on, refusing to answer if used by anyone's voice but his. A few weeks ago, he had picked her up upon returning from the office, swung her around and asked, "And just _who_ are _you_?" "_Maggie-yours_", she had replied and had wriggled out of his arms when he had held her just a bit longer – squeezed just a bit tighter upon hearing it.

He thought back to the night he had put her bed together – her first 'big girl's bed' – that he swore he'd never finish. He really thought the child was going to either be sleeping in with them – or in the carton the bed had come in. Barbara had come into the room just in time to keep him from losing it completely and, of course, the bed had been finished and was perfect. The end of their evening had been perfect, as well and Jim flushed slightly as he recalled how he and Barbara had ended the night. It was a stark contrast to the way she was undoubtedly spending this one, he realized; a thought made worse for the knowledge that he was the cause. He removed his glasses and put them on the floor next to his holster and weapon then turned over to face the window. Heartsick and exhausted, Jim closed his eyes and willed sleep to come. Tomorrow's events lay between him and his return to his family; he had to be on top of his game to make his end of the plan work.

XXXXXXXX

Jim walked out of the police locker room, showered and wearing a clean suit. He dropped his Task Force uniform into the laundry cart and headed toward the elevator that would take him down to the parking garage. Unsurprisingly, Gerry Stephens fell into step beside him.

"So, I suppose the penalty for wising off to you now is much stiffer than it was before, eh, _Commissioner_?" Jim could hear the smirk in his friend's voice as the doors slid closed and he punched the button for the garage level.

"Off the record?" Jim asked and when his friend nodded, he continued, "You call me that when it's just us – with or without Janie and Barb – and the penalty will be VERY stiff!"

Gerry gave his friend an awkward – and very brief - one-armed hug. "Welcome back, Jimmy. It wasn't the same without you."

Jim smiled self-consciously. "It was _one day_, Gerry."

"Day and a half," he corrected. "And I wasn't just referring to how it felt here at the MCU."

Jim's heart dropped. He was itching to get home, but dreaded seeing what the past day and a half had done to his family. "I know," he said, simply.

The tinny sound of the elevator bell interrupted them as they reached the ground level. The doors slid open and the two men walked toward their cars. As Jim dug his keys from his pocket, Gerry spoke.

"You did the right thing, Jim; you protected your family. If you couldn't come up with any other plan, at least you came up with one that worked. Keep that in mind when you're talking with Barb tonight. It'll work out." The heavyset man smiled then turned toward his own vehicle parked only a space or two away.

"Thanks, Gerry," Jim said, sincerely. "I hope you're right."

As Jim unlocked his door, Gerry pulled his own past him and rolled down the window. Grinning widely, he called, "See ya tomorrow…._Commissioner_."

Jim shook his head and waved as Gerry accelerated his car and drove up onto the street. Moments later, Jim did the same.

XXXXXXXX

Jim couldn't remember a time when he was happier to see his home. He pulled into the driveway, noting the darkened windows and the absence of the typical noise coming from within. Of course, it was late, which meant that Maggie and, undoubtedly Jimmy were already tucked into bed. As he approached the front steps, Jim noted that only the soft glow of the small table lamp shone from the kitchen window. In the large living room window, Jim could see the curious blue-gray flicker of the television screen; no other lamp was on. Climbing the steps, Jim looked more closely and caught his breath as he saw Barbara sitting on the couch. Dressed in black, with her feet tucked up beneath her, a magazine was open on her lap but her gaze was fixed, unfocused on the screen – an old movie Jim dimly recognized, but could not place. With one final look at his wife, Jim started to insert his key into the lock then stopped. If he unlocked the door and just walked into the house, the shock would undoubtedly be too much for Barbara. The shock of seeing her dead husband standing on the stoop was likely to be bad enough, but at least she could slam the door – _I hope she doesn't_ – or he'd be better positioned to catch her if the shock really did have a physical effect. As he raised his hand to knock, it suddenly occurred to him that Barbara's reaction to his 'resurrection' could easily take the form of anger which, he conceded, she had every right to feel. He rapped his knuckles sharply against the wood then took a single step backward to wait. When she didn't immediately appear, Jim leaned backward in time to see her rise from the couch and walk slowly toward the doorway. Soon, her shadow appeared on the pale wall of the hallway seconds before Barbara, herself appeared in the kitchen.

Jim held his breath.

Barbara looked through the sheer curtain covering the window and blinked once then again.

The door jerked open and she was close enough to touch. Jim couldn't take his eyes from her face, her complexion pale, her eyes faintly bloodshot, the delicate skin around them pink. Jim knew by looking at her that she had not recently slept.

He moved onto the top step then took a breath. "I'm sorry," he began, his voice soft. "I couldn't risk your safety…"

From the corner of his eye he saw her hand come toward his cheek and he stood still, never relinquishing his hold on her eyes. The slap stung and hit with enough force that his face was turned from hers – but only for a moment. Jim turned back to her, engaging her again. _I love you. I had to protect you and the kids. I can't live without you; I couldn't stand it if anything had happened. I know this was devastating. I know I hurt you. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I love you._ Barbara had told him once that it didn't matter a bit to her that he didn't think himself eloquent in expressing his feelings for her. _It's always there in your eyes_, she had told him. _You can't get away with a thing; I can read you every time. _

_Read me now,_ he begged silently. _See what I'm feeling; see what I'm trying to say to you. _

Suddenly, she was in his arms, crying as if her heart was broken, clutching his jacket like a lifeline – twisting and releasing handfuls of fabric. Jim held her to him more tightly than he could ever remember doing. He gently rocked her back and forth, whispering his apologies, telling her how much he loved her until he could hear his voice go hoarse around the edges. Finally, he felt her turn her face into his neck and place a small kiss beneath his ear, then another to his cheek and – finally – another to his mouth.

She told him that she loved him, and extracted his promise to never – _never _make this choice again. It was an easy promise to make. He realized that in protecting her, he had inflicted the same pain that he had known he couldn't bear for himself – losing the one person who meant the most. Jim knew he would never do that again.

"I promise you," he said against her hair.


End file.
